The Runaways Routed: OR, A WHIP for MOMUS. Being an Answer, and a Confutation, | Against the Runaways, and their Vindication.  
Quicquid Conabor dicere Versus est, OVID.  
OFF with your Doublet Sirrah, come you Ass,  
Must every Coxcomb for a Poet pass?  
With my Satiric Rod I will thee Whip,  
And through the Royal Change i'll make thee Skip  
Like Jack a Lent, that goodly Round shall be  
No more abused by thy dull Poetry;  
For with my thundering Verse I'll quite confound,  
And hurl thy Lines out of that famous Round;  
My Soul doth mount on golden wings that fly  
Three times thrice higher than the Starry Sky.  
But babbling Battus needs must be in Print,  
Though neither Head, nor Foot, nor matter in't;  
Fie Battus, fie, is't not a burning shame,  
To put in Print such paltry Lines and lame?  
And for to Vindicate thou knowst not what,  
For by this Act no credit hast thou got,  
But foul disgrace, for as I did pass by  
(Upon my Word I do not tell a Lie,)  
The Royal Change, the Women that did stand  
With thy disgraceful Paper in their hand:  
It is such filly and such paltry stuff,  
(Say they) there's none that sees them but doth puff;  
It is a shame, a blemish and Disgrace,  
Unto this Famous Round, and goodly Place  
To have such senseless idle Lines to sell;  
For Battus, if thou'lt give me leave to tell  
Thee, they are raw and senseless, dull and nought,  
And that's the cause so few of them are bought;  
For those same Women that thy Lines do cry  
(If they could once this gallant Poet spy,)  
They'd scratch thy eyes out, and from off thy face  
Would pluck thy Nose, and with a foul disgrace,  
They'd cause the boys to hoot at thee, and shout,  
Till from that Royal Round they did thee rout!  
To cause them daily in the cold to stand,  
With such a senseless Paper in their hand,  
Until there brains do crow, their hearts do ache,  
And cannot so much as a penny take;  
Therefore thou famous Poet be advised  
For if thou come, I wish thee come disguised.  
Thou sayest the Prophets did from Solyma flee,  
But prithee what is that to thee and me?  
They had a special call from thence to go,  
But these themselves, I'm sure cannot say so.  
All argument by Scripture must be tried,  
But then the Scripture must be right applied;  
'Tis Aprosdionuson nihil ad rem,  
For what hast thou and I to do with them?  
When in the Camp the Plague was now begun,  
Did Moses, or did Aaron seek to shun?  
Or were they so afraid they durst not stay?  
Or did they once attempt to Run away?  
They did not stir afoot, but rather Ran  
Unto that place where they heard it began;  
So that it doth appear they ran not from't,  
But with undaunted Spirits ran unto't.  
Betwixt the Living and the Dead they stayed,  
And to the God of Heaven there they prayed;  
The sum is this, 'tis not to Run away  
Can save a Man, but to repent and pray.  
For if a sinner Rove the World about,  
His sins pursue him and will find him out.  
The Plague will follow sin be where it will,  
Without repentance it a Man will Kill.  
No more of Scripture Battus, let us see,  
How we can prove it by Philosophy;  
Tollitur causa, Tollit effectus;  
The best Philosophers do argue thus.  
The cause removed, th' effect doth cease to be,  
This is both Scripture and Philosophy.  
Sin is the Cause, then take the Cause away,  
And the effect it can no longer stay;  
Thou sayst that Majesty did bid them go,  
But prithee tell me canst thou prove it so?  
Did Majesty bid them run, and not thee?  
Thou wast to stay for to write Poetry,  
'Tis well Majestic Poet thou didst stay,  
For hadst thou Money to have Run away,  
‛'m sure thou would not long have stayed behind,  
Thou art so giddy and distract in mind.  
Thou Wooden Dunce that can do nought but Vapour,  
Go pay the Printer for his pains and Paper.  
For he his like to lose by thy Dull Brain,  
And the poor Women for their daily pain;  
Must all be loser's, they must never see  
One penny by thy Babbling Poetry.  
There's not a man alive did ever write  
Such paltry nonsense, or did ere indite  
Such Fustian stuff, for sure thou art some Boy,  
That wantest Wit, and so dost write a Toy!  
Farewell, Farewell, poor Momus, my dear Honey,  
I wish thee more Wit, and myself more Money.  Ars inimicum non habet nisi ignorantem. 
FINIS.   

London, Printed for the Author, Anno Domini. M. DC. LXV.